COVID19: March 31, 2020 - Holy Ground

Yesterday afternoon I stopped by the church to take care of some business. And yet, my time inside the empty building became something deeper for me. It was an opportunity to reflect on my relationship with church buildings through the years. Sometimes they have brought me joy, and other times they have been the bane of my existence. But I can't deny the ways they have blessed my life. 

I never feel alone when I'm the only person in an empty church. It's like the building breathes with me. I can’t pass through the worship space, in particular, without sensing a closeness to God that I don’t experience anywhere else. 

Empty churches are never really empty, are they? They’re filled with memories of people, and music, and the laughter of little kids. Ascension's building has stories to tell that perhaps no one remembers, yet those stories leave an indelible mark on all that happens within the building for as long as it stands. This time in 2020, when we closed the building during a global pandemic, will become a part of its story. 

Yesterday, as I walked through the building, I saw everything just as we’d left it. It’s like we were all suddenly whisked away without warning. And that’s actually pretty close to the way it happened. Right up until a couple days before March 15, we were prepared for worship on Sunday, with a clear plan for how we would take further measures to protect people from passing the virus to one another. 

The bulletins had been printed and were ready to go. The choir had rehearsed their anthem. All the ministers for the day had been lined up. But it didn’t happen in the way we’d planned. Instead, we ended up worshiping together on Facebook Live in a rough video produced by a pastor who suddenly felt herself climbing a steep learning curve to figure out how to broadcast online worship from her dining room table.

As I wandered through the church building, all around me I saw reminders of grand plans that had been given the kibosh.

Many Christians (me, for example) have conflicted feelings about church buildings. We often lament how much money we pour into maintaining our aging buildings when we could be putting that money into ministry, as if ministry and the church building are two separate things. Now that we’ve been away from our facility, I've had some clarity on church buildings. Yes, I can see, up close and personal, that the church building isn't everything. And yet, it certainly is something.

It’s not just the building itself, but it’s what the building represents. It’s a place of peace and comfort when the world seems too much for us. It’s a place where we practice loving one another as Jesus loved us. It’s a place where God’s people gather in community to receive nourishment so we can do Jesus’ work in the world. It’s a place where ministry happens. Of course, it's not the only place where those things can happen. But it is the place that’s specifically set apart for them to happen.

From the outside of the building, the part that people see as they pass by, you would never know the deserted scene on the inside. The cross on the steeple continues to tower over everything around it. No matter how our culture has changed as we adapt to this crisis, the Church remains rooted in the season of Lent. Last week we put up a new banner with a message from Jesus to all who pass by. 

I pray that the presence of our building continues to be a sign of hope for the world around us and for the people of Ascension, who wait patiently for the day when, once again, they will step into this holy space. When we return, as a sign of gratitude, it might be appropriate to do as Moses did when he stood on holy ground, and remove our shoes.